Activate Javascript or update your browser for the full Digital Library experience.
Previous Page
–
Next Page
OCR
298
THE MAIDEN OF THE WAVE.
An Indiaa Tale of Oneida Lukes
BY JAMES G. CLARK.
Come, sit with me on the lonely shore.
And I'll talk to thee of the days of yore;
J'll tell thee a tale as I heard it told,
Ere my youth was gone and my heart was old.
‘Twas a glorious time when each warlike band *
Was free as the wave on the shining strand,
And the hunter left the chase to rove
With the dark-eyed damsel of the grove.
Their fathers slept on a shaded plain,
But the shades have fled, and the bending grain
Is growing there, and the white man’s bones
Lie moldering low ‘neath the polished stones;
And the lover's voice and the maiden’s dream
Haye fled like the shades of the pathless wild,
And the council-fire no more will gleam
On the dusky brow of the forest child:
They are silent all, and the paleface roams
O'er their viewless graves and their yoiceless homes.
Twas a loyely sight when the countless trees
Were stirred by the breath of the balmy breeze,
*Till the wild rose waved by the water's side,
And the lily danced in the silver tide;
But the thickening boughs have vanished here,
And covered with grass the bills appear,
While their ancient crown with its beauties rare
Mas passed away, and here and there
The scattered trees with faces bare
Stand darkly forth to the moon's white glare,
And even the rose and the lily fa!
Haye ceased to wave in the summer air.
Yet fancy views with a transient eye
A fearless host on yonder plain,
And the beauties that so darkly die
In visions greet my gaze again;
And the deer comes down from the hills to play
In the crystal depths of the tranquil bay.
Bat when I wake, they all depart
Like burial shadows from my heart,
And the fettered horse feeds on the lea ‘
Where the stag once bounded, glad and free.
Still starlight sleeps on the sparkling shore
As it did in the glorious times of yore,
<And the moon looks down with a quiet eye
From her silver seat in the solemn sky;
And the woods recall their perished charms,
While they clasp her beams in their loving arms.
I, too, will view her smiling face
Till I find repose in its peaceful rays,
And, like the trees, recall my race
In the legend light of former days.
Then listen to me on the lonely shore,
And I'll talk to thee of the days of yore—
I'll tell thee a tale as I heard it told,
Ere my youth was gone and my heart was cold.
I.
The wood thrush sings by ment and noon
To the Maiden of the Way
And nine score years the waning moon
Has wandered o’er her grave,
There morn first flings her purple wings
Upon the scented air,
And eyening’s first soft shade appears,
With wakeful eyes and holy tears,
A pensive mourner there.
O, she was like the fragrant roso
That breathes on summer rills,
~ But transient as the sky that glows.
And fades o'er western hills,
She died in beauty’s sad decay,
Like the blush upon the flor
She passed on beauty’s wings away,
Like clouds that deck the brow of day
At twilight hallowed hour. +
nL t
There lived a chief her heart had known,
The lord of a distant land,
Who came at night o’er the wi ‘aves alone, +
To weep by the mourning strand;
He heard the night bird o’er the grave
Peal forth its plaintive tune,
And wildly bright the waters laved
The shore where bordering forests waved,
In the starry sheen of June,
ly,
Then memory stole upon his soul
- Like a bird from a brighter zone, -
That folds its wings and mournfully sings
Of the scenes forever gone;
It called him back on the wasted track
Where Hope's young buds had perished,
It sang to him of other times,
Of sunless skies and voiceless climes,
‘Where love no more was cherished. °
: Vv.
He felt like one whose earthly way.
Has lost a radiant light,
When the past is but the sunny day .
Of a black and starless night;
And then he wept, that warrior brav e,
Dodge’s Literary Aeaseam.
And the tall trees wept above—
The south winds came, their boughs to way @
Above the cold and heavy grave
That rested on his love.
YI.
The owlet screamed in a distant dells
Of lonely groves aw
And, rising lightly oer the swells,
The lake fowl skims the bay;
And on the shadow of the moon,
As it stepped from tide to tide,
The shrill-yoiced watch of night's pale noon,
The wild and melancholy loon,
Was darkly seen to ride.
Vil.
The chieftain turned from the glittering flood
“To the dark and cheerless grave,
When suddenly before him stood
- The Maiden of the Wave.
“Welcome, welcome, my warrior bold,”
‘mured to her love;
“My home is not this dwelling cold,
Where joyless things their revels hold,
In the gloom of the sullen grove.
“From tlie lovely haunts of the spirit’s home
I have come to return with thee,
Where the ancient lords of our nation roam
By crystal lake and sea:
There, brilliant birds of tuneful sounds
Through the fadeless bowers play,
And there the red deer gracefully bounds
Over pleasant streams and flowery grounds,
In the beams of deathless day.
Ix.
“Then follow me to that region old,
Far under the shining lake,
Where the waters rest on sands of gold,
Nor the winds their slumbers wake.
O! fly with me from the dreary grave
To those realms of joy and love—
We'll close the door to the dazzling eave
That leads us down from the Jast blue wave
That lies in the world above.”
x.
She ceased, and o’er the distant isles
The lake breeze died serene,
And Nature, weeping through her smiles,
Seemed musing o’er the scene;
The waves were sleeping calm and bright
In eyening’s soft embrace,
The round moon rode the cloudless hight,
Dimming the lustrous eyes of night
With a glance from her silent face.
XI.
The maiden’s voice rose sad and slow,
As the tides and breezes died,
And, gazing in the flood below,
She sang by her lover's side:
“ Adieu, adieu, my warrior brave!
Remember me, my love—
The clear blue lake my brow shall lave,
And I will sing beneath the wav:
The songs you sing above.”
Then from his presence lightly flew
The idol of his eyes,
But from the waters brightly blue
Tie heard her chorus rise:
“Come down to me, my warrior brave,
. To the home of thy dark-eyed love—
* The clear blue lake our brows shall lave,
And we'll sing the songs beneath the wave |
Our brothers sin is above,
XIII.
“ Proud chieftain of the forest land!
O, cease the wilds to rove,
' And we will walk the golden sand °
Beneath the island grove,
* Come down to mo, my warrior brave,
And live with thy dark-eyed love—
The clear blue Jake our brows shall lave,
We'll sing the song beneath the wave
Our brothers sing above.”
ve
x
When morning Pinshed a purple pride
On fair Oneida’s si
Faint voices o'er then mates sighed,
' + Like voices in a dre:
“Farewell, farewell, our 1 fathers graves!
Adieu, our native grove
The clear blue lake our bright home layes,
“We sing the songs beneath fhe waves
Our brothers sing aboye.”
The red men heard the pausic break |
In murmurs on the sh
But from the deep and shiniog Jake
Their brother came no more.
O softly sail and lightly row
Along the gleaming tide,
- For, roaming under the depths below, .
Away from where the cold winds blow, |‘
Is the warrior and his bride.
4
XVI. .
Full nine score years the waning moon
Has wandered o'er her tomb,
Yet sings the thrush by night and noon,
Amidst the summer bicom.
And still the robin o'er her grave
Teals forth the plaintive tune,
And gently bright the waters lave
The strand where weeping wild flowers wave,
In the balmy breeze of June.
“ORPHAN WINNY:
A Beautiful Tale of Scottish Life.
N traveling through the north of Scot-
land, endeavoring to find out a relation
who had some years previously settled in
that part of the world, or failing in this, to
obtain a situation as governess, my inquiries
led. occasionally to strange recitals concern-
ing circumstances and individuals, that might
have suited well for the foundation of many
a romance—proving the oft, though never
too often repeated adage, that “truth is
stranger than fiction.”
In ‘that bleak and singularly shaped town
of Peterhead, whose harbors run, like the
jaws of a sword-fish, into the sea, I had
occasion to take up my abode for some time
at the house of one Abel Grey, who, with
moderate custom, and great prudence, main-
tained his family in much respectability. Of
course he had an admirable coadjutor in
his good and industrious wife, who managed
her little houschold with a methodical judg-
ment and in a simple sway I have rarely
seen equaled. Ilis shop, merely a clothier’s
—for some thirty years ago, men did not,
as now, monopolize every branch of busi-
ness under one roof—was, I remember well,
on the right-hand side of the passage on
entering, and the parlor exactly opposite ;
and surely it was the most comfortable little
parlor in the world! At least I thought so,
when, after a freezing ride on the outside of
the coach from Aberdeen, my Jandlady—for
I had taken a small bedroom and sitting-
room on the first floor—sent up a polite re-
quest that I’ would join the family at tea.
Every corner of the room was illuminated
by that most cheerful of all lights, a blazing
fire, and revealed, what perhaps shows the
hospitality of a good Scotch housewife more
than anything else, a tea-table covered with
abundance of good things.. Remembering,
as I did, the scanty supply. of thin; bread
and butter, which, with a decoction of very
pale hyson and cerulean milk, make up a
London tea, I was enchanted with the Land
of Cakes—recollect, good reader, I was a
hungry outside passenger—which. could
thus receive an utter stranger as an hon-
ored guest. °-; ’,
Tn one corner of the r room were two little
girls, apparently of the same age, busily em-
ploy ed in hushing a doll'to sleep, and mak-
ing ready its tiny cradle; they both called
Mrs. Grey mamma, and yet one of the chil-
dren was dressed in deep mourning, while
the other wore a frock of bright crimson.
A fine curly-headed boy, of four. years old,
in his night-gown, ready for bed, sat by the
fire teaching the kitten her letters—a kind
of catechism which could only have occurred
toachild of his age, I could not help re-
marking the imaginative employments of
the children, at the same time asking Mrs.
Grey if the little girls were twins.
“Ono,” replied she; “they are not the
same mother’s children.”
~ “Indeed!” I exclaimed in some surprise ;
“and yet they both call you mamma?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Grey, pointing to
the child in mourning, “ but Winny’s mother
is dead ;” and the child, as if catching the
words, ceased her play, and turned her
beautiful dark eyes full upon me, as if to say,
“Pity me !”
“Poor child!” I exclaimed; “but she
seems to have found a kind relation in you,
Mrs. Grey.”
“No relation,” replied that good woman ;
“T doubt whether Winny has a relation in
the world.”
“You quite interest me about the little
creature,” said I; “would it be too great a
liberty to inquire her history ?”
“TJ don’t know much of it,” said Mrs.
Grey; “and what Ido know, I have been
cautioned not to reveal. _ She has been con-
fided to my care by a gentleman who has
adopted her: he is extremely fond of her,
and no doubt will give her a good eduea-
tion, to fit her for a governess, or some such
desirable employment.”
Alas for the desirableness of such an em-
ployment! Tad simple Mrs. Grey known
as much of the drudgery of a governess’s
life as I did, she would have found some
other word by which to qualify it. The
postman’s knock interrupted our conversa-
tion.
“Tshouldn’t wonder,” said Mrs. Grey, “if
that is a letter from Captain Singleton ;”
and almost the next minute her, husband
entered from the shop, confirming the sup-
position.
“Winny,” said Mr. Grey to the little
girl, “come here, my pet, and tell me what
would please you most.”
“What, most of all—of. everything?”
asked the child, looking wistfully in his face,
as if she believed for a moment in his power
to grant her wish.
“Yes; what in all the world could hap-
pen to please you best?”
“O that dear mamma could come back
again !” said the child, with painfully touch-
ing earnestness.
“Nay, Winny,” said Mrs. Grey, after a
moment of deep silence, caused by the un-
expected reply of the ‘child; “that is con-
trary to your little prayer at night, and
which you tell me you say from. your heart
—‘ Thy will be done.’ ”
“But I do wish dear mamma were alive
again,” said the child, beginning to. sob.
“And it would be wicked to deny it, for
mamma said God wouldn’t love me if I told
a lie.”
“ Quite right, my darling; ” said Mr. Grey,
caressing her; “never fear to tell us all
your thoughts and wishes. But Winny is
too good and grateful not to be happy that
Captain Singleton is coming to see her. to-
morrow ?”
“Dear Papa Singleton!” said. Winny,
brightening, through her tears— he'll let
me talk about mamma, and sing the songs
she taught me.”
nd who was this mamma, thought I,
whose memory, seems thus to engross the
very “ abundance ” of the little orphan’s
heart ? A day or two revealed to me her
sad story.
Captain Singleton, the gentleman who
had adopted Winny, arrived on the follow-
ing day. Ie appeared to be exceedingly
delighted with his little protégé, who hov-
cred about him with an affection which was
well calculated to secure his love. He came
to the town for no other purpose t than to see
her, and therefore spent the greater portion
of his time at Abel Grey’s, merely sleeping
at the George Inn, at the top of the street.,
The manners of Captain Singleton were
80 agreeable and gentlemanly that I almost
fancied T had met with an old friend. Mrs,
Grey being obliged to attend to household
duties, occasioned several téte-h-tétes be_
~
|
|
1